A Penny For Your Thoughts
by Skylarcat
Summary: He was actually jealous of a pen. How ridiculous was that? A god-damn pen, which he might add, dangled deliciously between a sexy pair of lips.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** A Penny For Your Thoughts  
**Author:** Skylarcat  
**Classification:** One shot because, well, because I can. And because I couldn't sleep and this dumb little story came out, and because dumb things crack me up, so of course, naturally, I would share. Oscar Vega POV, Guest Staring Angie Flynn.  
**Rating**: R (Due to language and subject matter) *Laughs and Laughs and Laughs*  
**Feedback:** Hell YEAH. I live for that shit.  
**Summary:** He was actually jealous of a pen. How ridiculous was that? A god-damn pen, which he might add, dangled deliciously between a sexy pair of lips. (Because sometimes you want a smut biscuit to dip in your tea)  
**Note:** Flynn and Vega are characters that do not belong to me. Yes, I have used them without permission. However, no copyright infringement is intended. And I will return them intact and a lot more satisfied.

**XXX**

If he had a penny for every time he thought about her; well, simply put, he would have a shitload of pennies.

Like now for example, sitting at his desk, attempting to do paperwork—attempting being the key word there—because his thoughts kept returning to her—his partner, who sat just across the room, at her own desk, completing her own pile of paperwork. And there he was—totally fixated on her.

He felt as though the very atmosphere was trying to set the mood—literally. The precinct lights were slightly dimmed, due to the late hour, and the economic cost of running electricity twenty-four hours a day. Outside the rain fell in a soft cadence against the steel roof. It all screamed romance; in fact, the only thing missing was a candle-light dinner, and perhaps a mariachi band just waiting to play at his very command. It could only be described as fate drawing them together, some invisible gravity force field aligning them just right, so all that was left now was for them to crash into each other.

Now with all that being said, for her part, she didn't appear to even notice that he was still in the room with her. She was sitting at her desk, one leg propped on it, the other an anchor on the floor. And he wondered what she was thinking about.

Just sitting there, reading over a case file, while mindlessly twirling a strand of hair and biting the tip of her pen, fully engrossed in whatever it was that had her attention, and the only thing he could focus on was that damn pen.

Yes, he was actually jealous of a pen. How ridiculous was that? But how could he not be—there it was—just lingering on her lips—her very soft, kissable lips.

God help him. Maybe it would sound better if he described the pen as antique, the very one that Abe Lincoln used to sign the Emancipation Proclamation, or maybe he could say it was a very expensive pen, yes, a Genesis World Record breaking expensive pen, made out of gold, twenty-four karats to be exact, and wrote in flakes of gold, but no, truth be told, it was just a simple ballpoint pen, even plain old blue, if you could believe it.

But what made it special—jealous worthy—was its proximity to her mouth. He would never admit this to her, at least openly, but he had a small obsession with her lips. They were this delicate shade of pink, not too bright, like some lipstick shade of pink, but not too matted either, just this perfect tone, and often times he imagined how they would feel beneath his own.

She picked up the small box of Thai food, completely oblivious to his attention, and he watched as she jabbed a pair of chopsticks in the container, gathering a healthy potion of noodles and then shoved them into her mouth. And by luck, a single noodle bunched at the corner of her lips, and if he had been jealous a moment before over a damn pen, lord help him now, because his blood was practically boiling beneath his skin. He actually thought he growled aloud when her tongue flickered out and grabbed the noodle. He couldn't help but to imagine his own thumb tracing over the very same spot; or the way her lips would slightly part as he trailed a finger along her bottom lip, or the way they would pucker as he lowered to kiss…

His thoughts were interrupted by the phone ringing. Stupid—damn—phone.

Of course, she answered it.

Momentary distracted, the phone idly hanging from her right hand, the pen now discarded on a heap of paperwork. He couldn't help but think how sad it looked, just lying there, longing to be picked back up and placed once more between her lips. It reminded him of wrapping paper, how it just got tossed aside. There it was, all this time, making boxes pretty, but no one cared about wrapping paper, we just wanted to know what the gift was inside. She was like wrapping paper, sure she was pretty on the outside, but he just wanted to explore what was on the inside—and to be inside—her.

Holy crap. He was in deep. What would his partner say, if she knew, he sat just across the room with these wanton desires. Good thing she was completely ignoring him, talking on the phone. Which by the way, whoever was on the other end of phone, seemed to be taking their sweet time with the conversation, as though they didn't have more important things to be doing with their time—like talking to each other—he wondered if he should be jealous. He was interesting—he had interesting things to say.

So, he just watched as she talked, both legs now leisurely placed on top of her desk, her head slightly lolling to the side, a sea of curls cascading around her shoulders—and then in an instant—he imagined his own hand travelling through her tresses; the silkiness beneath his fingers.

And then his mind went in an entirely different direction—one, in which, she sat naked perched on top of him. He had one hand strategically placed along her hip, the other twirling a lock of hair before gliding down the scope of her neck, then over her shoulder, along the curve of her breast—there his thumb would caress her pink taut…

"Vega…"

The picture his mind had summoned popped like a balloon. He blinked. She was now off the phone and sitting on the corner of his desk, looking down at him in puzzlement.

"I said your name—like a million times, you were miles away. What were you thinking about?"

He wondered if you could feel red—the actual color—he imagined it would feel warm, burning, or at least that is how the back of his neck was feeling, and he was sure if he were to look in the mirror, he would find it quite red.

"I've been thinking…" she continued, already moved on to the next subject, and he knew he should be listening, but her voice was muted, the only thing he was focused on was how her lips moved. If asked, he knew he wouldn't be able to repeat anything she was saying, but he would be able to write a book on the movement of her lips; the sort of melody they had as they moved—up and down—sometimes the corners would turn upward, sometimes downward—and it all fascinated him.

He would like to describe the way she talked as graceful, but that wasn't Angie, she was a lot of things—graceful being near the bottom of the list. But her lips moved much like how the rest of her moved—quick and reckless. If he had to compare them to something, he would say a sprinter racing to the finish line: they moved with a reason, with a purpose, and he wanted to kiss the shit out of them.

"So what do you think?" She asked, finally finished, and just stared at him, one brow lifted, waiting for his thoughts. And for the life of him, he couldn't recall one damn thing she just said.

So he shrugged. "Sounds good to me." She smiled at him, pleased with his response, and then walked back to her desk, and for all he knew, she could have just asked him to get a tramp stamp. Oh brother.

But whatever, there were more important things on his mind, like clearing his desk and having his way with her right then and there. He wondered if she tasted as good as she smelled—felt as good as she looked—fucked as good as she teased.

And if she wanted to know what he was thinking about—he would tell her. "I was thinking about ravishing you right here on my desk. I was thinking about kissing every part of your body, even the hidden spots, those mostly. Kissing you until my lips knew every spot by heart." And she would completely understand, because she's Angie, and that is what she did. She got him. They made sense—to each other—with each other.

He glanced over at his partner and discovered she was staring at him. And for a moment, he swore her cheeks turned slightly red—before she turned her attention away and back to the paperwork, her pen back between her lips, and he wondered what she was thinking about—a penny for her thoughts.

**XXX**


	2. Chapter 2

Okay, so this story was just going to be a One-Shot, but I've changed my mind, sue me. Thanks to SchaeferTXTX who left a review asking for a POV character switch, and I thought, what a wonderful idea, and since I aim to please. Oh, and be warned, already have another part for this story. It's funny, because I wasn't sure if anyone would like this story, or this format, where I am not trying to be serious, just being sorta stupid with it. It cracks me up 'cause no harm in a fun little story. Right? Right. Here we go with Angie's POV. Thanks to everyone who left me reviews-really made my day!

**XXX**

If she had a penny for every time she thought about him; well simply put, she would have a shitload of jars of pennies just sitting around her house collecting dust, because let's face it, Angie Flynn was too lazy to coin all those pennies, and exchange them for cash. It was just how she was—always with the intention to do things, but never following through.

Sort of like—how she was with her partner, who sat across the room, at his desk, doing what she imagined was pretending to complete paperwork—because much like herself, paperwork wasn't their favorite part of the job. They enjoyed the puzzle: the unraveling, the examining, the probing, the ultimately solving, and putting the puzzle back together; not the actual writing up on how they achieved all this—besides isn't that why they had Lucas? She chuckled to herself and shot a glance at Lucas, from where he sat on the opposite side of the room—he was a good kid, after all he was staying late with them, and. she mused, was probably the only one who was actually getting any work done, but where was she going with this train of thought...

Oh yes, her partner—and yes, intentions. She had the intention to one day tell him how grateful she was to have him as her partner, her friend. How much it meant to her that he always had her back, and how he was the only person in the whole entire world that she trusted. Maybe one day she would tell him that she loved him, but intentions had to be followed through, and there sat her problem.

She stole another sideways glance at Vega—just sitting there looking as sexy as ever. He had this deep look of concentration on his face, brows furrowed, his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. Those—god—damn—glasses were going to be the death of her yet. Okay, so he didn't wear them all the time, only when he was really trying to focus on something, or there were loads of reading to be done, but when he did, my god, it was like a river straight between her thighs. She of course, would never admit this, but nothing would drop her panties faster than the sight of him in those glasses.

How the hell was she supposed to get any work done with him over there—teasing her? The nerve of that guy. And more importantly, how was she going to explain this to Mark tomorrow when he asked why she got nothing done? "Oh sorry, Mark; was too busy fantasizing about my partner. Happens all the time." Yes, that would go over smoothly.

She absently bit on the tip of her pen, still staring at Vega. Could a man get any more perfect? Seriously, that crisp oxford button-down shirt fit him like a glove, showing off his biceps and his chest muscles—oh what a girl wouldn't do to run her tongue along—she bit down a little too hard on her pen, almost tasting ink, and threw it down on her desk in disgust—because let's face it—she didn't want to be sucking on a pen—now on a certain anatomy part of her partners,—she could totally go for that, but—out of sight, out of mind—right?

Was it just her or did the temperature in the room just go up a thousand degrees? She didn't dare ask, so she just chalked it off as being due to the late hour, and the economic cost of the precinct having to run air condition twenty-fours a day—had to cut cost somewhere. Maybe, she would just go outside and stand in the rain; perhaps that would cool her off. What the hell was she—a dog in heat?

_Focus Angie_—her mind was trying, now if she could only get the rest of her body to follow suit. She had just started to get situated, a leg propped on her desk; a case file actually opened this time, when the faint crinkling sound caught her attention.

She turned once more to face her partner. Now for his part, he sat there looking down at the small bag of Reese Pieces in his hand—not paying her any mind. First of all—Reese Pieces were her favorite candy, and he knew this, and second of all—he wasn't eating them like a normal person would—by the handful and just shoving them into his mouth—no, he was taking his sweet ass time, eating one by one, his tongue slowly going over each piece—holy shit, she was going straight to hell.

He glanced up and caught her eye—surely she was red—could you feel red—the actual color? She imagined it felt fiery and hot, much in the way her cheeks were feeling at the moment, and she bet if she were to look in a mirror right now, they would be quite red.

"You want some, partner?" He asked.

And for a moment, she just blinked, not sure if he had actually spoken or if she imagined it. But judging by the puzzling face expression he was wearing, he indeed had spoken. So she answered him. "Oh yeah, I want some." Her voice came out breathy, even to her own ears, and in a tone that sounded like she might just as well have said. "Oh yeah, I want to fuck you hard." Did she mention she was going to hell?

He stood from his desk and crossed quickly over to her, extending the box of candy. She cupped out her hand and watched as he poured, her eyes of course never on the Reese Pieces, but on the other candy that stood in front of her. _Don't mind if I do_—she thought.

She couldn't help but look at his ass as he walked back to his desk—and what a hot ass it was too—my god. Her mind took control, and the next thing she knew, they were naked rolling around in her bed. She imagined how his body would feel pressed onto her own—how he would slide just perfectly between her legs, as though he was the other half of her, two puzzle pieces finally coming together—and mostly how his perfect ass would feel under her hands as he grinded hard into her.

When had she become a hormonal teenager again? She seriously had to cross her legs, but right as her daydream was getting good—the god—damn—phone rang. Talk about killing the mood.

Of course, she answered it.

And of course, it was Betty, going over some autopsy result, which at the moment, she could care less about. Thankfully, Betty had the same idea.

"We can discuss this more in depth tomorrow morning, I have a date."  
Angie glanced at the clock. "You have a date 1:14 in the morning?"  
"Well those are the best ones."  
Angie could practically hear her smiling over the phone. "Yeah, for a booty call."  
Her friend ignored that. "So where is that fine glass of water tonight?"  
That caught Angie's attention. "If you are referring to Vega; he is sitting right across the room, and yes," she lowered her voice slightly. "Looking fine as ever."  
Right on cue: Vega looked over at her. "Gotta go, Betts." And with that she hung up the phone.

Vega didn't say a word. Instead, went back to eating the last few Reese Pieces, and by god, she had never been more jealous over a candy in her life. The way he sucked and licked—why couldn't it be her?

"Vega?"

He ignored her, or didn't hear her, one of the two, so she tried again. This time louder. "Vega."

She could tell he was lost in his thoughts and she wondered what he was thinking about—praying to whatever god there was—that it wasn't another woman that preoccupied his thoughts. She stood up and walked over to him, he didn't seem to notice her proximity, so she took a sit on the corner of his desk. "VEGA." This got his attention—finally.

"I said your name—like a million times, you were miles away. What were you thinking about?" He just blinked at her, lost for words, and slightly red, and for a moment, she wondered if he really was thinking about a woman—the thought of it not being her was too much, so she quickly moved the subject matter on—not sure if she wanted to hear his answer.

"I've been thinking…" she continued, but paused when she noticed the distant look in his eyes, he was miles away—again, not listening to a word she was saying—so naturally of course—she decided to have some fun with him. "We have been partners now for five years, and simply put, you're hot, I'm hot," she waited a moment to see if she were going to get a reaction from him, but he just absently stared at her lips, so she continued, "I want to become friends with benefits." She leaned back and smiled. "So what do you think?"

He appeared to be considering what she said, his brows furrowed in thought, his lips drawn in a straight line—and she almost busted out laughing—she knew damn well he didn't hear a damn thing she just said—and the whole thing was amusing the shit out of her.

Finally, he shrugged, "Sounds good to me."

She smiled, shook her head, and then walked back to her desk. One of these days she would tell him about this, and it would become an inside joke between them, one in which, she would never let him live down, but for now she had more pressing matters at hand.

Like how she wanted nothing more to walk over to him, swirl his chair around, rip off his pants, and straddle him right then and there. She wondered if he tasted as good as he smelled—felt as good as he looked—fucked as good as he teased.

And if he asked what she was thinking about—she would tell him. "Nothing." And he would know she was lying, because he was Vega and that's what he did. He knew her—all of her—even the parts she tried to hide, but failed. They made sense—to each other—with each other. And—besides all that—the tickle of his beard between her thighs—was too appealing to not explore one of these days—but for now—

She glanced over at her partner and discovered he was staring at her. And for a moment, she swore his cheeks turned slightly red—before he turned his attention away and back to the paperwork, a Reese Piece between his lips, and she wondered what he was thinking about—a penny for his thoughts.

**XXX**


	3. Chapter 3

Okay, so I am writing this, and this small voice in my head is going, "This is so WRONG on so many LEVELS", but I am laughing, because that shit never stopped me before, so on with the craziness. Everyone, who left wonderful reviews, thank you so much. Made me laugh and smile and think up more insane ideas-ah! :P So enjoy!

**XXX**

If Brian Lucas had a penny for every time he heard a rumor regarding his colleagues being in a romantic relationship; well, simply put, he would have enough money to be retired by now and on some yacht off the coast of Mexico.

Now of course, not that he held any value in wagging tags, but there were talks—around the water cooler, in corners of hallways, even in restrooms. Flynn and Vega were popular topics, and he would silently listen, never biting, or leaving any crumb that might suggest that they were more than just partners, but of course they were—best friends at least—that was clear, he wasn't sure on the romance standpoint, though he could understand why people thought that.

In the Detective World, it was hard to find a partner who you could tolerate, yet, alone actually admire and like; and in those rare moments when it did occur, it was like witnessing magic; and Lucas had been watching magic happen for the last several years now. He was learning from the best—two of the most analytical minds at work—they would see things that would go unnoticed by most—their track records were quite impressive, even among their coworkers, and he considered himself quite lucky to be learning underneath two of the most brilliant minds out there.

And it was for that reason alone, that he didn't mind these late night paperwork sessions. When the precinct would be just a hush, most officers already gone for the evening, and he at his desk, reading over the latest case they just solved, writing up each element on how Flynn and Vega reached its conclusion; it was like reading a mystery novel.

He didn't mind the boundless loads of paperwork because it gave him a front row seat into how their minds work; how the most mundane clue could be the piece to reveal it all. He was almost envious of their working relationship; they worked together like a well-oiled machine.

It was clear to him, that these two were two halves, only whole together, and it made him sad to think that they may never take it to the next level, never explore what more there could be—the fear of ruining a perfect partnership—friendship—always hindering the aspects of a romantic future.

He glanced over to where Vega was sitting, and paused, dropping his case file back onto his desk. It wasn't the fact that Vega didn't seem to be working on any paperwork that caught him off guard; it was the dark look in his eyes. He followed the direction to which he stared, and found Vega's attention was squarely on Angie, who sat eating from a box of Thai food. Lucas's stomach growled: he had forgotten to eat dinner earlier, but back to the matter at hand. The look on Vega's face wasn't of anger or resentment, but something else—right there on the tip of Lucas's tongue—he's seen this look before—but where?

And then it came to him—where he had seen it before. It reminded him of a lion during feeding time at the zoo—you know when a zookeeper comes out and dangles a piece of prime meat right in front of a hungry lion—yes, that was the look Vega had while watching Angie—as though he went too long being a vegetarian and now Angie was the perfect regiment to suppress his appetite.

What the hell was actually going on here—Lucas thought, but Vega caught him watching and quickly returned to pretending to do paperwork—so Lucas allowed the moment to past and went back to his own paperwork, but the thought was still in the back of his mind. Vega had looked at Angie with a look of pure hunger, and if given the chance, he was sure his coworker would have devoured her right then and there—tonight was proven to be quite interesting indeed.

The hours seemed to drag on for what felt like forever—oh wait, scratch that—it had only been twenty-five minutes to be exact—but the feeling of forever was still there. If he had to sign his name to one more form, he was going to pull out his gun and shoot somebody. He was just about to stand and stretch, when the phone on Angie's desk began to ring. He watched her answer it and heard it was Betty on the other end, which surprised him; Betty didn't normally stay late hours, the only one out of them, who actually had a social life.

So he did what most respectable Detectives would do in his position, he crossed his arms on his desk and laid his head down, hoping by chance to be able to catch a nap without being caught, of course. But then he heard it—this faint crinkling sound.

His head whipped around about the same time as Angie's—and what would you know—but there sat Mr. Oscar Vega with a bag of Reese Pieces—that son of a bitch—not even sharing. He turned to look at Angie—the beginnings of this inner thought being given a voice, but her face expression shut him up quick.

There she was—practically drooling—watching Vega, now for a moment—a very brief moment—he might add, he thought perhaps it was those delicious candies she was lusting over, but the way her eyes moved up and down Vega's body, shot that to hell. He never wondered, until right then, if eyes could actually rape a person, but lord, her eyes left nothing to the imagination: undressing, redressing, and then undressing his coworker over and over again. My god—the woman had no shame.

He glanced around the room—because there was no way in hell—he was the only one witnessing this, but the precinct was practically empty, the few people still left in the room, didn't seem to be paying any mind to the soft porn, Lucas was watching.

"You want some, partner?" Vega asked.

Lucas realized he was talking to Angie, so he turned to watch, and wait for her reply.

"Oh yeah, I want some," her voice came out breathy; and for a moment Lucas wondered if he had heard her right, or if she had really just said, "Oh yeah, I want to fuck you hard," because either way the suggestion was there—loud and clear.

Now, despite the fact that he was hungry; and let's face it, slightly pissed that neither acknowledged his presence in the room, he ignored that voice in his head yelling, "Um, hi, maybe I would like some of those delicious Reese Pieces," but he knew that if he said it aloud, it would interrupt whatever this was that going on—and damn if he was going to miss any of this.

By the time Vega returned to his desk, Angie had molested his ass over a dozen times with her eyes. And the same could be said about Vega. The few times Angie wasn't ogling her partner, he was watching her like a dog in heat—Lucas was actually surprised that Vega was able to resist walking over there and humping her leg. He wasn't quite sure what the hell was going on between these two, but it was the most entertainment he had had in a long time. The only thing he needed now was a nice bag of hot buttery popcorn. He glanced longingly in the direction of the break room. It was only inches away, but it meant risking the previews and everyone knew, that half the time the previews were better than the actual movie so—fuck that.

"Vega," Angie said from her desk.

Oh, this was going to be more than just a silent movie—Lucas was captivated—what would they title this little movie?—Flynn and Vega make a Porno?—If they knew what he was over here thinking—he would be a dead man for sure.

She had moved over to Vega's desk, taking a seat on its corner and saying something, Lucas couldn't quite make out, so he propped his feet on his desk and extended his chair out further, closer to where Flynn and Vega sat.

He could tell Angie was doing most of the talking—and if he just tilted a little bit further back in his chair—maybe he could hear…

"I want to be friends with benefits."

HOLY SHIT!—Lucas was so surprised, he lost his footing and the chair tilted to the side spilling him out onto the floor. Flynn and Vega shot him a curious look, but turned back to each other, as though the most embarrassing thing just did not happen. He was on his ass—on the floor—and he might as well not even be in the room—those two only had eyes for each other.

He picked himself back off the floor and turned his chair once more upright and took a seat, frowning and red—the color—if you could describe how red felt, he imagined it was one of alarm, that's why fire hydrants and hazard items were that shade. To warn your ass—of looking like—well looking like an ass.

Well—maybe the rumors were true, or least in the sense that Vega was over there looking at Angie like he wanted to clear off his desk and take her right then and there, and Flynn was over there looking at Oscar like she wanted to swirl his chair around, rip off his pants and straddle him right then and there. And maybe—from what Lucas just overhead—they were about to do these things, but for his part—their secret was safe with him—he would never breathe a word of it to anyone—because that was how he was—their slightly less important partner, but partner none the less, and that's what partners did, they had each other's backs.

But he would be lying if he didn't admit—there was a part of his mind—the dirty part—that wondered, if they tasted as good as they smelled—felt as good as they looked—fucked as good as they teased—and if he were a gambling man—he would place all his pennies on it—screw traveling the coast of Mexico—he was going all over the world—pennies for thoughts.

**XXX**


	4. Chapter 4

Well, because I'm stupid, and a sucker for reviews, and honestly, the thought of this story ending just makes me sad, I bring to you, another part! Love you guys! You're the best!

**XXX**

If Betty Rogers had a penny for every time she was asked, if Flynn and Vega were a couple; well simply put, she would have enough money to buy those expensive Prada shoes she had been eyeing now for some time—and those were some killer heels.

It was only natural—this curiosity that people had about them. Even she had to admire, how they worked together—two strings in this perfect knot of harmony. She knew better than most, how rare it was for Detectives to find their other half; the perfect partner, and these two had struck gold when they found each other; and frankly, Betty liked them, not just as Detectives, but as people. They weren't just suits with badges and guns, they actually had personalities, and she would take working with them any day of the week over those other presumptuous tight asses that worked around there—insert Mark's name—he may be nice on the eyes, but the guy was a total tool—and Angie—and probably Oscar, would agree on that, but now, where was she?

Oh yes—Flynn and Vega's relationship, or there lack of—depending on how you looked at it; and she was almost certain that the pair wasn't doing the naked pretzel—so to speak, or at least judging by Angie's reaction every time she suggested _'tapping that'_ in reference to Vega—it was safe to assumed their relationship wasn't in the romantic sense—and by romantic, she meant two naked bodies wrestling.

Because, in all honesty—even without the sexual part; their relationship was romantic. They would bring each other coffee, or hold the door open for one another. Sometimes, she would just sit and watch how they interacted with each other, and she swore it felt like she was watching some old married couple. They would tease—bicker—but truly, what was the point in a lover's quarrel without the make-up sex?

That she would never know, but they had to be round-up, and constricted, like wine trapped in a bottle, just ready to pop that cork. All that pent-up frustration wasn't good for them; they should just fuck and get it over with, for their own sanity, if not for health reasons. That's how they should explain it to Mark. _"We had to screw, doctor's orders." _Yes, that would go over smoothly.

But they were indeed a sexy couple—even she "shipped" them, if that were an actual term. She was one of their biggest fans—just waiting on the sidelines, cheering them on—enjoying the slow build of will they or won't they—and when and where—she actually started a betting pool, though she would never admit that to anyone, that it had been her, especially to them, but she had a substantial amount of money riding on them.

And it was for that reason—the rooting them on part—not the betting pool part—that she didn't mind staying late and finishing the autopsy report they had requested. She enjoyed her job, but more importantly, she enjoyed watching Flynn and Vega as they took her findings, and formed a motive from it—it fascinated the shit out of her—the way their minds worked—like reading a mystery novel, and what girl didn't enjoy a good mystery?

She was almost finished, just a few more minor details, and the report would be complete. When her stomach growled, and instantly she opened her desk drawer, and frown when she found it empty, then she remembered she had given her last bag of Reese Pieces to Vega earlier—so much for a late night snack.

She glanced at the clock: 1:10 in the morning, she had to hurry, she had a date—well, if you could call it a date—there was no actual going out involved, more like her going in—a warm cozy bed of a really hot guy, so yeah, a date it was.

She quickly finished up the report and pressed one on her phone. Angie was quick to answer.  
"Flynn," Angie greeted her.  
"Well good evening, detective, or should I say morning?" She shut the file and leaned back in her chair, her voice slightly tired.  
"Why are you calling?" Angie asked, a little surprised, and Betty mused there was something else on her friend's mind, or someone, she didn't have to ask.  
"Um, the autopsy report you and your boyfriend requested, but I can drop it off, and you can just read over it, I have a date." She could hear Angie snort.  
"You have a date 1:14 in the morning?"  
She smiled inwardly, for Angie didn't correct her on her earlier _"boyfriend" _reference to Vega, which only meant she was having dirty thoughts about her partner, but for now she allowed that to go and simply answered, "Well those are the best ones."  
"Yeah, for a booty call," Angie shot back.  
Betty ignored that, and got the subject back to her and Vega. "So where is that fine glass of water tonight anyway?"  
"If you are referring to Vega; he is sitting right across the room, and yes," her voice lowered slightly, as though Vega might hear her, and she added, "looking fine as ever."  
"Oh, what is he wear…" she didn't get to finish her sentence.  
"Gotta go, Betts," and the line went dead.

She grabbed her coat and purse and decided to take a little detour through the homicide department, and see for herself what actually was going on.

She had just made it to the glass doors, when she paused. There sat Angie, her legs propped up on her desk, head bent back, gazing at Vega, as though the man was pure sex on a plate.—Well that explained her distraction over the telephone—and what was this—Vega sneaking glances back in Angie's direction, looking very much like a hunter in pursuit of prey. What the hell was she witnessing here—a porno?

Thankfully, it appeared that Lucas was watching the same thing she was, for he was inching his chair closer to them. She just opened the door and slipped through, when she saw Lucas lose his footing and fall on his ass. She bit back laughter as she approached him. "Real smooth," she said when she finally reached his desk.

He turned a bright shade of red—and if she had to describe it—she would compare it to ripe cherries, or a fire truck—that intense hue of red. "You saw that?" he asked, sheepishly.

"That—and also what appeared to be soft porn—"she tilted her chin in the direction of where Flynn and Vega sat chatting, they were completely oblivious of her or anyone else for that matter—they only had eyes for each other.

Lucas gave her a knowing grin, and she shook her head, not even wanting to know —it was none of her business, for now anyways—she had a date—she would get the scoop from him later—but for now—she had a report to deliver. "Came to drop this off," she handed Lucas the file. "Just in case Vega or Flynn wanted to read over it, but I see they are too busy screwing each other with their eyes."

And with that, she turned, walking past Vega and Flynn, but paused turning to them. "Detectives…" They glanced up for a moment, and before she walked out the door, she simply said, "Get a room."

And then she was gone, heading to her car, but she couldn't help but wonder when those two would just go ahead and be together, because it was clear to see, they might as well be carrying around neon signs that read: _WE LOVE EACH OTHER, _for you had to be plain stupid, or Mark, to not see it.

In the back of her mind-the dirty part, so the main part of her brain—she wondered, if they tasted as good as they smelled—felt as good as they looked—fucked as good as they teased—and judging by how they were looking at each other, and considering that substantial amount of money she betted on them getting together, it appeared that she would be getting those Prada shoes earlier rather than later—pennies for thoughts.

**XXX**


	5. Chapter 5

Because I need to get right with the lord, and because I am not quite there yet, I bring you another delicious part. As always, hope you enjoy. Thanks for the reviews and the encouragement of this fic. :P

**XXX **

If Mark Cross had a penny for every time he wondered if Angie and Vega were an item; well simply put, he would have about two bucks, because frankly, he didn't think about them as a couple—or Vega that much at all, now Angie was an entirely different story, he thought about her a lot, mostly while he was in the shower—and that would often keep his hand busy—if you knew where he was going with this. But where was he going with this?

Oh yes—Flynn and Vega as couple, as if. Like seriously. Sure, they worked great as partners—the yin and yang, but romantically?—There was no fucking way. He knew Angie—they had history, a track record—and the thing with track records was this: they were bound to be repeat offenders, and he was sure that was how it was going to be with them—again.

Angie was complicated, and reckless, with relationships, with men, with her life in general—and it took a certain kind of man to be able to tame her, to rope her in, and that wasn't Vega; he allowed a little too much freedom in their partnership—you had to reign Angie in, or before you knew it—she was gone, or moved onto the next chase, or man.

Now sure—he noticed their closeness—who didn't? The way they would communicate without even using words, their eyes or body language, telling each other all there was that needed to be known. He saw—the proximity, in which, they would stand next to each other, seeking out random opportunities to touch one another—a hand on the back or shoulder—a teasing bump or playful smack. He heard—the intimacy behind their voices when they spoke to one another—the care, or dare he say love—that resided behind every declaration—now that he thought about it—god damnit, maybe they were in love after all. But—fuck that.

No—no way was Vega a threat. Yeah, the man seemed to watch Mark like a hawk lately, as he attempted to sneak his way back into Angie's life—suggesting they interview a suspect, or how the other day Angie even brought him a coffee—Vega would give him death glares from across the room, and if a look were as powerful as a bullet, yeah, Mark would have been dead by now.

But what pissed him off mostly—was how Vega was still always so polite to him—with his _'yes, sir'…'were trying, sir'…'if you say so sir'._ His "sir" this, "sir" that—Mark wished he would shut the fuck up with that shit—they were men after all, not beneath fist fighting for the woman they wanted, or at least in his case, he wasn't, but no, Vega had to go be the mature one—the bigger man, so to speak—no pun intended there.

But seriously—could Angie really be interested in Vega—like really interested? And it was this thought, and this thought alone, that had him coming back to the precinct at this early hour, because he had been on his way home from Samantha's, when he noticed both their cars in the parking lot, and he was just a nosy guy and a jealous one too.

He quickly jogged across the parking lot, towards the precinct, a newspaper held over his head, to shield his perfect hair from the light rain. He passed Betty on the way in, but she paid him no attention, rushing by in those deadly heels of hers—seriously, you could poke an eye out with them. He was curious as to what the rush was—not like she had a date at this time of the morning.

When he entered the homicide department, he found the room completely empty, except for three bodies, each at their own desks. But something wasn't quite right.

Along one desk, sat boxes of half-eaten Thai food, case files spread out in all directions, and one female agent with a face expression of—how they hell could he describe it? She was biting her bottom lip, her eyes hazed over, and she was staring at Vega—with this _just been fucked real good _look_, _which made Mark sick to his stomach.

And there was Vega, heaps of untouched paperwork, bags of—what the fuck was that—Reese Pieces? He, too, wore a similar expression—and for a moment, Mark actually thought he could smell sex in the air—what the fuck had been going on while he was out.

And then there was Lucas, doing what he guess was actual work, pretending like he knew nothing, but really knowing everything—and Mark knew he had to get to the bottom of this—so he coughed, making his presence known.

"Shit," Angie mumbled—in that really annoyed tone, like when you're in the middle of making love and right there in the zone, when your kid walks into the room—and you've been caught, so you make up some story about how mommy and daddy were just wrestling naked, and you're really just pissed because you got caught—yeah that tone.

And Vega mumbled, "Jesus,"—in a similar tone—but with more of a surprise hint to it, like when you're making love, and you're going real hard at it, pumping fast, like right there, and the damn bed breaks, and you never saw it coming, and it just completely kills the mood—yeah, he said it in that tone.

All three of them looked up, startled, and quickly all reached for a paper, or case file, and did their best to appear to be working. "Nice try, Detectives."

Angie sighed, threw her case file to the side, and once again propped her legs back on her desk. "You caught us." She even put her hands up in defense.

"Yes, caught you doing absolutely nothing."—Though in the back of his mind, he thought, _yeah, caught you practically doing your own version of Angie does Vega in a precinct porno flick. _And honestly—it was pissing him off. He picked up one of her Thai food containers, glanced in it for a moment, ensuring it was indeed empty and threw it in the trashcan. "What exactly have you been doing tonight?"

"Funny you should ask," Angie said—and she said it in this way that suggested Mark actually shouldn't have asked, but since he did, she had a story to tell him—and he just stared at her with this: _go on, because I know you're full of shit _face expression.

"For the life of me, I just couldn't get anything done tonight, but it wasn't my fault, it was Vega's."

Mark glanced at Vega—who appeared to be looking like a deer caught in headlights, no clue as to where this was going—and for a moment Mark felt sorry for the guy, but only for a moment—because Angie continued.

"That man," she pointed to Vega, as to signal some significance, "had the nerve to eat Reese Pieces in front of me, and not like a normal person, no he had to toy with me, licking and nibbling each one, and the only thing I could think about, is how I wish that candy was me—me he ate."

Lucas actually spit out his coffee—seriously—spit it out across his desk. Mark, on the other hand, swallowed hard, anger slowly starting to burn through him—he could feel himself turning red—if he had to describe it—he would compare it to fire, a slow intense flame. Whatever Angie was trying to pull, Vega caught on, and it was now his turn to speak.

"I can't take all the blame, sir. You should have seen the way Angie licked and sucked her noodles, the whole time I watched, I couldn't help but wish it was me—me that she sucked."

Lucas actually dropped his coffee mug—seriously—dropped his mug right then and there and broke the shit out of it. Mark had heard just about enough. "Excuse me?"

"Mark, we're fucking with ya." Angie laughed, and rolled her eyes. "We've been working, what the hell did you think we've been doing?" Gesh."

Mark tried to relax slightly—but there was still something nagging at him—the proof was in the pudding, as they would say—"Where's your finished work?"

Angie and Vega shot glances at each other—and it was loud and clear—neither had a clue on how to answer this—and Mark was beginning to get pissed again—but Lucas stepped in.

"Got the finished case file right here, sir." He actually had a completed file too, but Mark wasn't stupid, he knew Lucas just saved their asses, but he was too tired to fight—tonight that is—besides, they had been at the precinct—the whole time, how much trouble could Flynn and Vega have gotten into anyhow?

He looked the file over once more, satisfied, and then nodded, "You guys can go home. We got an early day ahead us." He glanced one last time at Angie—a hint of sorts—that if she wanted, she was more than welcome to join him later—but she could care less about him and his damn hints, she was watching Vega—again. What the actual fuck?

He huffed, and walked away, wondering what it was that Vega had over him—sure the guy was nice, but damn—he wasn't even tall—come on—ladies like tall men. And sure, he heard the talks, hell; he saw the suggestions, but really? Come on—but whatever—he had Samantha—or whatever her name was—he didn't need this shit—he was too old for playing games anyhow—maybe he would ask Betty out—she was single—yeah that's what he would do.

He glanced once more at Flynn and Vega and sighed, too bad neither would ever act out their desire to be with each other, for he bet they tasted as good as they smelled—felt as good as they looked—fucked as good as they teased, and it was too bad—because they were really missing out on a lot of fun. And honestly, since he no longer cared, he thought they would be cute together—opps—another thought about them: make that two dollars and a penny now.

**xxx**


	6. Chapter 6

If Oscar Vega had a penny for every time he allowed the chance to confess his love to Angie slip away, well simply put; Oscar would be quite a rich man. Because the opportunities were always there—always presenting themselves, a million times, in the time-length of a single day, and he always just stood there, watching them past—like the changing of a page, the moving on to the next chapter,-the ultimately finishing of the book—and he didn't want to leave their love story unfinished, or incomplete.

And maybe, he would be a rich man, from all these moments, but he would be poor, where his heart was regarded, it would be empty—made void, without her, and her love to fill it, and that was no life for a person—a life not shared.

And so, there he was—alone, driving home in his car—his thoughts on her—again. The way that noodle had lingered on her lips, just begging him to come get a taste, or that damn pen, how it mocked him, showing him the way inside, and how he failed to even move from his seat, and all he had to do, was stand up, walk over to her, bend her in his arms and plant the kiss of his life on her, but no—epic fail—and he had many of those lately.

What was it about her that made him seem like adoring fan, longing for her autograph, right in her presence to ask for it, but too scared, and always chickening out? Christ—the man knew how to fire a gun—for crying out aloud, but not a clue on how to approach Angie.

God damn that woman—only she could do this to him—get him all up in a fired state of mind. One moment, she would be irritating the shit out of him—'_let me drive, let me drive'_—in that annoying whiny, sexy as fuck voice—that made him want to push her off a cliff-and then she would pout those soft, kissable lips at him—and the next thing he knew he was running down that damn cliff, with his arms open, ready to catch her—and there he would be sitting beside her, in the passenger seat, of her smelly car.

She always won—well he always _let _her, she just never knew that that was want he was doing. He had more control then she knew, but he was just too scared to advance the game to the next level—at some point you either hit victory or you lose the game—and he had much more than just a game to lose—he had his partner, his friend, here—and they outweighed the chance at love—his life was better with her in it, regardless of what form. If she chose to exist stage left, then, Oscar Vega, the man he had become, and liked, would cease to be, for he had put all his pennies, so to speak, in a basket, and Angie was always carrying it around, never minding how heavy it was.

Even on the first day they meant, there was something there, some small spark, and now it had transcended into this wild forest fire, swallowing everything in its path, and everyone saw it, just stood around to watch this train wreck before it even got on track, just waiting to see if they were going to ride off in the sunset or derail, but no one collected their tickets, so they were watching for no real reason, because both Vega and Flynn were too chicken to make the first move or any more at all.

And why the hell wouldn't he make the first move—like damn—he was a hot-blooded man, with a need for Angie running in his veins—he should go all caveman on her ass, just pick her up and throw her over his shoulder and carry her to the bedroom, announcing, in a very Tarzan like voice: _Me Oscar. You Angie. Me Hump You Now. _

Why not—because frankly something had to be done, he was tired of always being in her presence and having to adjust his pants, always bunching right at the crotch area, every time she simply said his name, or smiled, or laughed—okay, so really all she had to do was walk into the room—and lately not even that—he'd just get a scent of her perfume and the man would come erect. If this job didn't kill him—then this woman would.

This very perfect woman, how she always challenged him, standing at their whiteboard, jotting down ideas and facts, and looking all insightful. And she was so smart, her mind always running a mile a minute, and her t-shirt would be cut just right, and she would lean in his direction to ask him a question, and it would be in just the right position, and the lights would twinkle along the skin of her neck—her chest, down the cove of her cleavage—not that he was looking—but that was exactly what he was doing—looking.

And it would take every ounce in him to not rip her clothes off her right then and there and go at it against that damn white board.

Motives were all about reason, and intent, and for the life of him, he tried to come up with every reason why he was turning his car around and heading towards her house, but there he was—two in the fucking morning—driving to his partner's house. It was fucking insane.

Every voice in his rational mind, told him: _turn back around, turn back around._ But it was as though he had become deaf—irrational, for his foot pressed harder on the accelerator.

He tried to think of what he was going to do once he got there, but nothing came to mind. He tried to think of things he could say, but again his mind was blank. He couldn't help but think—_shouldn't this be easy_—like how it was in all those fairytales—that, um, he didn't watch, or read, or know anything about because—uh, because he's a man and doesn't watch or read that kind of shit, yeah. But he imagined they had happy endings, and that is what he was going for here: a happy ending, with Angie.

By the time he pulled into her driveway, he was a fucking wreck. His hands were sweaty, his heart was racing, and he just sat in his car, staring at her house, realizing he probably just made a huge mistake, but her porch light came on, and he knew it was too late now, because she knew he was there, and she was waiting for him.

And the thought of her simply waiting for him was almost his undoing. He imagined how this would feel every night, the coming home, and she there, simply waiting for him, and it made him feel—he wasn't sure on the right word, but it make him feel real tingly inside, warm, and tangible –he guessed the word he was looking for was alive—he felt very much alive at that moment.

And it was because of this—he gathered enough nerve and got out of his car and headed to her door—because tonight he was determined to see if she tasted as good as she smelled—felt as good as she looked-fucked as good as she teased. And once he stepped over her door frame, there would be no turning back; he had a debt to collect, and she stole all his pennies, it was time he made a deposit in her bank—so to speak.


	7. Chapter 7

If Angie Flynn had a penny for every time she wished for her and Oscar to be together, well simply put; Angie would have enough pennies to fill up quite a few wishing wells, because this one wish of hers was bound to never come true. She would never make the first move, she couldn't because that would mean letting her guard down, and well, Vega would never push her into anything—And that was the problem, she wanted to be pushed—pushed up against a lot of things—walls, beds, the fucking floor—you name it, she wanted it—and she wanted it to be him that pushed inside her-oh god her mind was wandering again.

Like seriously—Reese Pieces—come on, she always loved those sweet candies, but damn, never almost had an orgasm over them—and how the fuck was she ever supposed to eat them again, without thinking about Vega, and his mouth—her panties would never be dry again.

The man drove her mad, always insisting they take his car—what the fuck was wrong with hers—it had a really big backseat—and if the mood ever stuck them—and Vega just make that first move—they could pull over—and well—he would be glad they took her car because she had lots of room in those seats to teach him some things. But that wasn't the point she was trying to make—what the hell was the point?

Oh yeah—Vega—and how he was a pain in her ass—oh speaking of which, that ass—in those pants—lord, how did she ever get any work done? In her mind—all she could do was imagine him bending her over her office chair—and that ass riding over her ass.

She needed a drink. So she headed to the kitchen, and pulled down her bottle of bourbon, and smiled to herself—There was a time, not that long ago, where her and Vega went out for shots, after work. He saw a part of her she had been hiding from him—and he accepted it, even embraced it—told her he would always be there for her—and she knew then, well way before then honestly—that he was a good guy—but at that moment she realized, he was a keeper.

Scotch was more of her drink—but he was bourbon guy, and after that night—it made its way into her heart, and now it was her drink of choice whenever she needed to take the edge off—like now, her mind spiraling out of control.

Here's the deal—she wanted that man—want was an understatement—she needed that man—needed him like how she needed oxygen to breathe—quite frankly, he was her life, her world—outside of Manny—and her job—he made her life worth living, and complete. They didn't just make a perfect team—it was so much more than that—and that scared the shit out of her.

Because Angie Flynn was horrible at relationships—she felt, somewhere, deep inside, she wasn't deserving of love or the forever kind—so she would sabotage her relationships—damaged them so much that when she pushed them away—they never wanted to return to her life. Well except for Mark; that asshole.

And she didn't want to do this with Vega. She was comfortable with him in her life—her partner—working well together—their friendly, playful, teasing banter—she could turn to him for anything—and the few times—the very few times—she did try to push him away—he stood like a brick wall, unrelenting—informing her that she could push all she wanted—he wasn't going anyway—and it was then that she knew she loved him.

But again—love and Angie didn't mix well—and she would push hard—she would break him down—until the bricks would come loose and Vega would break—and she would be left alone again—this is why she could never allow a relationship between them to develop. She couldn't risk losing him.

She could though- go for some Reese Pieces—and then her mind wandered again—like how she could place those candies on certain parts of her body—and how Vega could lick his way along her, eating them—and other things—as he made his way—wait-she thought she heard a noise—but it was only for a moment—she knew the house was empty, Manny was staying the night with a friend and all.

She took a shot and tried not to think about Reese Pieces, or Vega—but yeah fucking right—when didn't she think about that man anymore. She went to bed thinking about him, woke up thinking about him—showered thinking about him. She finally got the meaning behind that song—_when I think about you, I touch myself_—but that's no one's business—suddenly she saw this as a Kermit the Frog meme—_I see the way Angie and Oscar look at each other, just fucking with their eyes, but that's none of my business._

Seriously—she needed to stay off social media—damn Manny for trying to get his mom up to date with technology—she still hadn't figured out the fucking cloud.

Even Vega knew about the cloud. What didn't Vega know about—oh yeah, he didn't know where she liked to be touched, or how she had a soft spot on her neck, that when kissed just right, she would giggle and get butterflies in her tummy. He didn't know she liked to sleep in, or how she liked to cuddle, though you would never guess that about her. Or how she liked to sleep with the fan on—or how in the winter time—she always wore socks. And she hated to cook—so she lived off frozen waffles and grilled cheeses.

But he did cook—so she could do the dishes. And he probably wouldn't mind kissing her neck every morning, causing her butterflies—hell, he already caused them—and he could get used to the fan, and probably wouldn't mind her socks—and they could cuddle and eat grilled cheeses and live happily ever after.

Because what was so wrong with that? She deserved happy endings and happily ever afters. All she had to do was take a chance—on him—on this—on them. And—fuck she was ready for it.

And why the hell shouldn't she make the first move—because she was the woman and he the man—this wasn't the 1920s anymore—woman liked sex and love—and they could pursue the man. I mean, why not—she should just sit in one of the interrogation rooms, wearing only one of his ties—see how he would like that. She took another shot—fuck yeah—that is what she was going to do—right now—go back to the precinct, get the extra tie he kept in the bottom drawer of his desk—go to one of those rooms, strip off her clothes—and call him back in. Okay, so maybe that wasn't going to work.

She could still get his tie—come back here—strip—call him over—tell him it was an emergency—scratch that—all she had to do was tell him to come over—and he would because he was Vega and if she needed him for anything, any reason, at any time, he would be there—so she would leave the door slightly ajar—and he would come in and she would be very naked—with only his tie on—what the fuck—was that headlights in her driveway?

Why the fuck was there headlights in her driveway at two in the fucking morning—Manny wouldn't be home until tomorrow night. And she wasn't expecting guests. She glanced at her kitchen table, to where she had placed her gun—you never know in these situations—better to be safe than sorry—then she switched her porch light on—and saw the car and saw who was in it—and she wouldn't be needing her gun—she caught her breath.

Why was he there, in her driveway, this early in the morning? Her heart was racing a mile a minute. Her knees actually felt weak and he hadn't even gotten out of the car yet—was he fucking going to get out of the car—like god damn—what was taking so long—what was he thinking about—like get inside her damn house already—and then she thought how "house" could be a metaphor for—well—get your mind out of the gutter—and she laughed—felt like she was insane, but he was there and she was feeling outlandish and a certain degree of madness—this was the feeling of being in love.

For she loved that damn man—what was she going to do once he came inside—what was she going to say—how was she going to act—she was going crazy—just standing there thinking, and then he got out of her car.

And she died-or she felt like she died, a million deaths all at once. And she knew that once he crossed over her door frame, there would be no turning back for either of them—and it was because of this thought, and this thought alone, she opened the door and stepped back, allowing him in.

If pennies were wishes, and wishes were pennies, her "piggy bank" was about to get so filled it was going to combust and she could hardly wait to see if he tasted as good as he smelled—felt as good as he looked—fucked as good as he teased. She owed him that, and if he wanted to collect, then well—her bank was open—so to speak.


	8. Chapter 8

One last chapter before I post what I call the "climax" chapters, and yes, you're reading that correct. I said chapters, because, of course it has to be told in different points of views, lol. Seriously, probably going to go to hell for writing such stuff, but going to have great company, because if you enjoy reading this, there's a chance you will be joining me. :P

**XXX**

If Manny had a penny for every time he was asked if Oscar were his dad, or if he and his mom were a couple, well simply put; Manny would have enough money to pay for his college for the next four years. And honestly—he was opened to the idea—the idea of his mom and Oscar being a couple—why the fuck not?

Oscar was practically the only male role model he ever had in his life; he made one hell of a good one, too. Often, when he needed advice—or felt like he couldn't go to his mom—or just needed another male's opinion, it was Oscar's he sought.

The man was intelligent. One of the smartest people he knew. And it took one hell of a smart man to match wits with his mom, she being one of a kind in her own right. They were both damn good detectives, and he was fascinated by how they worked together.

He could only describe it like this—they were two halves of one whole—they belonged together—like peanut butter and jelly—like peas and carrots—like Reese and Pieces. You took one, you took the other. And he was the luckiest kid in the world, because he got to have them both.

And any man who could work with his mom and put up with all her bullshit and her quirky ways and do this for five years already—well he needed an award—and he needed to put a ring on that finger.

But besides all of that—the way Oscar treated his mom, well that got his respect right there. He protected her—always looked after her—was always there for her—and not just her, but for him too.

Manny knew the man would give his very life up, if it meant keeping his mom from harm, and that's the kind of guy he wanted for his mom. One that would die for her—because she deserved that—she deserved to be happy. Always doing for him—never for herself.

Of course, Oscar would tease—play around—but deep now, Manny knew he was a solid guy. Which, is why, when he first heard of Betty's betting pool—of will they or won't they—and—when and where—he and Lucas were quick to put down some money.

He, like many of them, figured it would be Oscar to make the first move—because his mom was stubborn as all hell—so Oscar would have to step up his game here—and he had a challenge on his hands, Manny knew that better than anyone—when it came to his mom, well, you had your hands full.

He figured it would happened at the precinct, late at night, while Oscar walked his mom to her beat up old car, that she insisted on driving—and as he would say goodnight, he would kiss her—and everything would click—and Manny would start calling him dad. And he would have a complete family—and life would be amazing.

Because, to him, he was dad, not by blood of course, but by every other standard—he already proved this to him—by always being there for him and his mom, and that was enough for him to trust the man with his mom's heart. And since in the fall he would be going off to college, he would feel better about leaving, knowing his mom wouldn't be alone.

But that's as far as he allowed himself to think, because all that other "stuff" that came with relationships, he didn't want to know about, especially regarding his mother and her sex life, as far as he was concerned, she was a virgin, and the stork just dropped him off at her door.

But back to Oscar and his mom; he wasn't sure what the hell was taking them so long to see they were made for each other. Everyone could see it—Oscar was like bourbon and his mom was like scotch—when you mixed the two together, you couldn't help but get drunk off your ass. That was how it was with them—when you saw them together—you would get drunk off the idea that love did in fact exist.

It was as though everyone could see it; EVERYONE, but them. Or perhaps they could see it too, but denial could be one powerful son of a bitch. Grown-ups were stupid. Manny hoped he wouldn't be that dense when he became their age.

He knew his mom didn't have the best track record with men, and anyone who dated Mark Cross, didn't have the best taste in men to begin with, but he had faith in her—she was bright after all—he imagined she was just scared—because a relationship with Oscar could actually work—and he bet that is what scared her the most—she was used to diving into relationships that she knew from the start wouldn't work. Married men—liars—men who had crazy hours—or lived miles away. She got into these relationships because deep down she didn't want them to work—and that is why it was taking so long for her to commit to Oscar in that way—because deep down she wanted _this _to work.

But it was bound to happen, no matter how hard each of them tried to stop it—you can't stop true love, or at least that's what Manny liked to believe—and that's what they had—his mother and Oscar—true love.

One day—hopefully soon—he thought as he walked along the sidewalk towards his house. He was staying the night at a friend's, but he had forgotten his track shoes for tomorrow's practice and decided to run home to get him. If he was real quick—and if his mom was still at the office—he could do it without her even knowing. Because he knew if she knew he was out walking the streets at this hour, she would kill him.

As he turned the corner, the light from their porch came on and he instantly froze—shit that meant his mom was home. How important where these damn track shoes—he stood there a moment longer—until something else caught his attention—another set of lights; headlights to be exact. There was a car in his driveway. Instantly, he turned into sleuth mode—and like a mother fucking ninja jumped behind a bush.

The car in the driveway wasn't just anyone's car—it was Oscar's and he had to inspect what the fuck was going on here—sort of late in the morning for a friendly little visit. He watched the guy sitting in his car, looking terrified—and then it all made sense to Manny. He was there to put the moves on his mom—and he was tempted to pull out his cellphone and text Lucas, Betty, even Mark—because he HAD to tell everyone.

But he waited—his mind screaming out to Oscar to just get out of the fucking car already. He started praying that the man wouldn't chicken out or drive away. God damn let's get this show on the road.

He was tempted to walk over and knock on Oscar's window—give him some friendly father and son advice—but in this circumstance he would be in the father's role and say something like, _'it's just a girl son, now yes it's the girl of your dreams, who you're in love with, granted, but trust me, she would be a fool not to love you back. And, listen, Oscar, she's my mom and she loves you, and all you got to do is make the first move, but remember, if you hurt her, which I know you won't, but if you do, I will kill you. And oh yeah—here's a condom.' _Okay—so there was no way in hell he would say that last part—but you got the gest.

He glanced at his house and saw his mom opening the door, and then Oscar was getting out of the car, and holy shit—Manny just knew this was the moment—and he knew someone in Betty's betting pool was about to cash in.

He smiled like some excited kid that just found out their parents were getting back together. And for a moment he thought about his track shoes but—fuck those shoes—he run barefoot before he would interrupt these two.

He practically skipped back towards his friend's house, and though it was late, he took a chance and sent out that text message, not caring who he woke up—he couldn't be the only one to know what was happening here.

He only hoped that they would finally found out if they tasted as good as they smelled—felt as good as they looked—fucked as good as they teased, because frankly, he was tired of this waiting game—and it was about damn time. He just hoped they had good enough sense to not record it—because he couldn't risk that shit getting on the cloud—because trust him—there's not enough pennies in the world that could erase it once it's on the cloud.


	9. Chapter 9

Okay guys, so yeah, lots of things to tell you. First, we are on the smut chapters. So the rating here is M for Mature Audience only, then again, if you don't tell I won't. But seriously, this was hard to write, because normally I don't write these kinds of scenes, I can read them all day, but to actually write one; nope. Two different things right here. I kept feeling like a kid, up late at night, sneaking to watch porn, knowing that any moment my parents could catch me. So of course I wrote this shit alone. But the challenge was trying to make it HOT but humorous at the same time—so it would still fit with the format of this story. Who knew a single one-shot would lead to this. Other news…have an idea to make this into a sequel. I already started writing it, but wasn't sure if you guys would be interested in reading it. Didn't want to jump the shark. So leave me a review with your thoughts. And get ready for dirty time.

**XXX**

If Vega had a penny for every time he had a wet dream involving Angie, well simply put; he would get a penny every day of his life, and sometimes more than a single penny a day; he had them more and more lately, in random moments.

Like in the mornings, when he first woke up, after a dream about her—his dick all hard. Or at the office, while she jolted down clues on the clear board, her mind lost in thoughts—she was the most sexy then—and he would envision all the places he would fuck her at—against the break room wall, on his desk—her desk—Lucas's desk—mainly on Mark's desk, and in front of Mark—the bathroom stalls—the elevator—that one was his favorite—and his dick would be hard— and she would ask if he was ready to go check out a lead and he would be like, "just a moment," and pretend like he was finishing some paperwork—the whole time trying to think of bad things—like puppies and kitties dying or his mom naked—or Mark on Angie—that would instantly kill his boner.

Sometimes—though he hated to admit this—he would get hard in Betty's autopsy room. They all four would be there: Him, Angie, Betty, and the damn body lying on the autopsy table. And Angie would be standing there—bent over the body, not grossed out at all—but fascinated; her mind already putting pieces together.

And he would stand there watching her—and he would swear there was nothing more beautiful—nothing in this world existed—that had anything on Angie. And then she would speak, throw out some of that wit of hers—that could only be hers. She had a sharp tongue, this one—and then the thought of that tongue—would make his dick hard—then the thought of her tongue on his hard dick—well the man had to fight back every time to not push that dead body of that cold table and fuck her brains out right there. One of these days, he wasn't going to be able to stop himself.

"Vega."

He looked up, his mind returning back to the present moment; he standing in her living room. She regarded him with an insightful expression, one she always wore, right before solving a case.

"A penny for your thoughts?" She simply asked, giving him one of those smiles.

And damnit, he forgot to mention her smiles—those also got his dick hard. Her laughs too, and—hold the fuck up—his pants were suddenly feeling tight around the groin—again. The man was in trouble here.

"You don't have enough pennies in the world," he informed her, holding back the truth—that she didn't want to know his thoughts—they were very dirty at the moment. So instead he put his hands into his pockets, and attempted to adjust his pants without her noticing his erection. "Hold out your hand," and he sort of said it without thinking.

Because Angie regarded him with a curious expression, and then her eyes right straight to where his hands where, in his pockets, straight to his dick; and automatically he turned red—like watermelon red—strawberry red.

And then her eyes returned to his and she wore this shit-eating grin. "What do you got for me, partner," and she said it in this breathy voice, that to him, almost sounded like she just said, _'give it to me hard'._ She held out her hand and waited.

Now as tempted as he was to just unzip his pants and put his dick in the palm of her hand, he resisted, and simply pulled out a bag of Reese Pieces, placing them there instead.

There was a moment of delight and then disappointment that flashed in her eyes—and he wondered, briefly, if perhaps she wanted it to actually be his dick that he gave her—and he was just about to cum from that thought alone—when she spoke.

"You're such a tease, Vega."

And then he was like FUCK THIS and grabbed her shoulders pulling her into him and planted one on her—and it was the kind of kiss to end all kisses ever before it. Her lips pressed hard against his, and he could hear the hissing of her breath in surprise. It was a battle of teeth and tongue and lips and more tongue; and lord have mercy on his soul, she tasted of Thai food and bourbon and nothing tasted this good, and if her mouth tasted this good—just think about how good 'other' parts would taste—and he was so fucking hard.

Once the kiss ended, they stood there for a moment, she panting hard—he wearing this smug grin—and then out of nowhere—she slapped the shit out of him—talking about open hand across the side of his face—and he stood there in shock. He expected a lot of things in that moment—even some rough—but he never saw that one coming. He rubbed a hand along his stinging jaw.

Maybe she didn't want to kiss—maybe he had it wrong this whole time—maybe she didn't want him. But before he had time to voice an apology—her eyes turned wild and she once more was in his arms, kissing him all over his face—what the fuck was going on—she was blowing his mind—and then the word blowing made him think of—well his dick was hard again.

She attacked him like some wild beast—that he couldn't control and he fell back against the hard wall, her hands moving quick to remove his coat, sending it falling in a heap on the floor. She kissed his lips so intensely—that he thought—if a kiss could kill a man—this is the kiss that would do it—he would be the man and just die right there—in this blissful state.

But he didn't die, so he tried to take back some control, and swirled her around, the kitchen counter now embracing her hips. She was taken aback by the sudden switch in position; that she reached up an arm to balance herself, hitting a shelf, and sending it and the assortment of little glass figurines, or whatever the fuck they were, crashing into the floor.

"Shit." He looked at the mess and then back at her—praying to the gods that this wouldn't kill the mood.

She was breathing hard, her hands still lifted up. She glanced at the broken items and then back to Vega. "I never liked that shit anyway, now keep going."

No fucking problem—he was on that like white on rice. His lips once more found hers as his hands clumsily fiddled with the buttons of her blouse—to no avail—and he groaned in frustration.

But—like a boss—his partner reached down ripping her blouse open, sending buttons flying in all directions. He looked at her—like what the actual fuck—she just shrugged. "Never liked that blouse anyhow."

Good enough for him, he went back to assaulting her mouth; his hands freely roaming over her breasts, along the fabric of her bra. He could feel her nipples becoming hard—hard like his dick—and he let out this moan.

"Wait," she said, pushing him back slightly—and he swore if music were playing or if this was a scene on television, this would be the part where the record would make that scratching beat, where everything going on in that moment would just stop—you know what he's talking about—he always hated that shit—and he really hated it right now.

He was frozen, just waiting, and to his surprised she just ripped his own button-down shirt open—sending buttons flying in all directions. "Never liked that shirt either," she said. And that was okay with him.

This time when they kissed her breasts pressed against his bare chest and it was like gasoline hitting fire. Everything just exploded at once. And if it felt this good right now, and she wasn't even naked—god imagine when she finally was, and pressed against him, or he inside her. That must be what they meant when they talked about heaven being here on earth.

He had to hurry this shit along, so he quickly went back to the task of undressing her. First off with the boots—he threw them over his shoulders—and then off with her pants—they joined his coat in a heap. So there she was—now only in her bra and panties—and he took a minute to inspect her.

Her bra was yellow and lace and her breasts heaved against the fabric, just begging him to release them. And her panties were yellow with blue poke-a-dots on them—they weren't a set, but somehow still managed to match—and that was so Angie—to not give a shit about being perfect, but still wanting to look good at the same time.

He practically growled at the sight before him. "Pants off," she demanded, pointing in the direction of his own pants.

He glanced down—damnit—he forgot that he still had those on. "Yes, ma'am," and he did what he was told—threw those motherfuckers across the room, joining the heap of the rest of their clothes.

"Or you just going to stand there staring at me Vega, or are you going to fuck me?"

This woman was going to be the death of him. He kissed her again, allowing himself to move along her jaw and down her neck. He snuck his hands around to her back, to undo her bra. But something was wrong—his fingers didn't seem to be working.

"God-damnit, Oscar," she said. The use of his first name threw him off for a moment, but then she was pushing him back. And he sighed. "Got to do everything my damn self," she blew a strand of hair out of her face as she reached to the front of her bra. It was then that he realized it clipped in the front. He reached for it, but she slapped his hands away—and he couldn't help but think—that was so typical Angie—always taking control, never letting him lead.

So he just watched as she unclasped it, and pulled it off, sending it flying over her shoulder; it landed on the hanging light in the kitchen. What was he going to do with this woman? But then he realized she was bare in front of him and his only rational thought was _damn, look at those titties!_ He couldn't wait—to lick and suck them—like Reese mother fucking Pieces.

He swore he could hear her heart beating just as fast as his own; only one beat ahead—then he laughed, because the word "beat" and "head" really shouldn't be in the same sentence right now.

He cupped one of her breasts, his thumb caressing over the nipple until it became one taut bud, and then he lowered his head and flickered his tongue gently over it, before engulfing it into his mouth and sucking hard—like real hard—like how kids would suck on those straws on those delicious juice boxes—so yeah, you know that shit was good.

And she certainly thought so, because her head shot back. "Oh my god!" Her hands went flat against the wall above her head, and he hadn't even moved to the main course yet.

But he teased her a little longer and moved to her other breast, repeating the same attentions to it, taking his time, driving her mad. He could feel her stomach tremble beneath his touch. And my god—the woman was panting.

She dug her hands into his hair and pulled slightly, forcing him to look up at her. "I want you inside me." And there was something about the look in her eyes that told Oscar that they needed to speed up this foreplay or—or something, because they both really needed this.

So he inched his fingers along the hem of her satin panties, but paused, instead rubbing his hand outside along her mound; feeling the heat and dampness there—holy shit—she was already soaking wet for him.

He pulled that shit off so quickly, he may have ripped them for all he cared—hell, he may never allow her to wear panties again. And then she was total naked in front of him—and he had thought that nothing existed in the whole entire universe as beautiful as this woman, but he was wrong—there was one thing more beautiful—and that was her naked.

And my god—he could smell her —he could smell her sex. Her hair framed her face in soft damp curls, her eyes dilated, and very alert. And he had to taste her—had to have her in his mouth, so he dropped to his knees—and at that moment—he realized that not being so tall had its advantages.

She gasped as he slipped a finger along her outer folds, teasing her. "Please," she practically begged him, so he slipped a finger inside her, and she instantly slammed her eyes shut. He could feel her muscles clench around his hand, so he slipped another finger in, allowing them to move along her clit. Her hands started slapping against the wall over and over, so he knew he was on to something. So he pulled his fingers in and out and in and out and in and out—he could tell she was getting near climax so he pulled his fingers out completely.

"What the fuck?" But before she could do anymore protesting; his tongue slipped along her folds and her legs shot straight out. And she tasted so fucking sweet—like honey—syrup—tangy and sticky and fucking delicious. He put his tongue further inside her and along her clit and instantly her thighs squeezed tightly around him. So he continued viciously; eating her like a starving man just getting his first meal in months, or in his case, years. And she tasted so damn good.

"Oscar…I'm gonna…" She didn't finish the sentence, he knew what she was going to say, and if she thought he was going to stop or pull away, or finish her off with his fingers, she had another thing coming or cumming; however, you preferred the word. He wanted to taste her that very moment she released herself to him; drink her up.

So he really went to town and before he knew it her body was shaking, her thigh muscles clenching. She shot straight up, her mouth coming open, and to his surprise, Angie Flynn, who always had something to say, who couldn't keep her mouth shut, was silent at the very moment she climaxed…and then, "Oscar," only his name. She fell back against the counter, completely spent, and he lavished in her juices a moment longer.

All the times he had dreamt of this moment, on how she would look, feel, taste—this time topped them all. And they hadn't even started the main movie yet, this was just a preview of what was to _come_—there was that word again.

He was just about to get the show on the road—when Angie stopped him.

"Your turn, Oscar," and with that she dropped to her knees.

And if he had a penny right now for this thoughts—well shit, they wouldn't be making any sense, because he already found out that she tasted as good as she smelled—felt as good as she looked—all he had to do now was find out if she fucked as good as she teased—and he couldn't wait.


	10. Chapter 10

This is not the last chapter. The conclusion is coming up and then can start the sequel.

**XXX**

If Angie Flynn had a penny for every time she had to take a cold shower all because of some sex dream involving Vega; well simply put, she would have enough money to pay off that huge ass water bill, because the woman had to take a lot of showers.

Too bad work wasn't all about her taking showers randomly during the day, because there were times there she really needed them—like when he would go make them coffee, not buy it, but make it—granted, it wasn't hard to do, but something about the fact that he would do it, and then bring it to her in a mug—a real mug—she almost threw her panties in his face every time.

There were so many places at work too—that she wouldn't mind fucking his brains out at: like on her desk, his desk, Betty's desk—mainly Mark's desk. On the roof—in the basement—against the window, overlooking the city—the hood of her car, in front seat of her car, the backseat of her car, trunk of her car—you name it. If there was a corner, a wall, a place, she wanted to fuck Vega there. And then there she would be, thinking these thoughts and she would be so wet—and he would ask her to go and actually do work and investigate something and just the thought of her standing up make her knees buckle—so she would have to be all like _'just a minute'_ and try to think up gross thoughts like—her favorite team not winning the super bowl—or Mark—you know gross stuff like that—trying to dry herself out.

Sometimes, she hated to admit this, but she would get really wet in Betty's autopsy room. They would all four be standing there, well, Angie, Vega, and Betty, and of course the body would just be dead on the table. And Vega would be all insightful, and wearing those god damn glasses, that did it for her every damn time and at that moment she wouldn't care if they pushed the body off the table or not, she wanted him right there regardless. Yes—she already established that she was going to hell.

And he would stand there watching her so intensely, that she swore nothing in the whole world compared to him, no feeling existed to compare how he made her feel. And if he could do that with just a look or a word, or a touch, imagine what he could do in bed—and she suddenly had to cross her legs. Shit.

"Angie."

Oh yeah, Vega was in her living room, and not aware that she was having these thoughts, so she sort of had to just cross her legs and stand there awkwardly, hoping he didn't notice. But he was giving her a '_what the fuck expression' _and before she could play it off he asked,"A Penny for your thoughts," and stood there grinning like a mofo.

And yeah; his smile, that didn't help matters, she felt like there was a river flowing between her legs. Goddamn him. She could only hope that he didn't smell her lusting over him.

"There aren't enough damn pennies in the world right now for me to give you these current thoughts," she said, her cheeks flushing, though she tried to play it off.

"Hold out your hand."

So she did. She stared down at the bag of Reese Pieces and wondered—why not his heart—or his dick—though, yeah, those candies did taste delicious. Like really delicious—you ever have Reese Pieces—those mother fuckers are good, she would have to remember to eat some later. "Why are you here, Vega; come to follow through on our earlier agreement?" She almost laughed at the memory of her fucking with him earlier in the day.

There was a moment of confusion and then clarity among his features. "Oh, that must have been what I agreed to back at the office. Yeah, I got to be honest with you; I was too busy staring at your lips to hear a single thing you said."

"Yeah, that's why I said it."

"And what exactly did you say?"

Oh shit—she didn't think this through. She was just going to have to say it, but really, really fast, and hope he didn't catch it, or wouldn't ask her to repeat it. "Nothing much, you know, just that we should be friends with benefits. Oh look, Reese Pieces," she held out the bag to him as though they would distract him for the moment.

That shit did not work—he laughed and we're talking about a long ass laugh—like it took FOREVER; and she stood there staring at him like '_what the fuck is wrong with you.'_

"So you want to be friends with benefits?" She wasn't sure what the fuck was so funny. "And I agreed to that?" She was beginning to get pissed.

Instantly, her hands went to her hips and she cranked her neck back—this mother fucker had some nerve right now. She was just about to go off on him when he planted one on her—and it was a kiss to end all kisses ever before it. Her mouth pressed against his hard, his tongue scraping the roof of her mouth—a battle of teeth and tongue and lips. She was about to climax from the kiss alone—god, help her. And he tasted of Reese Pieces and she loved how they tasted. And, yes, she was so wet.

When the kiss ended, they stood there for a moment, she panting hard and him wearing this mother fucking smug ass grin and she thought _'oh hell no' _and the fact that he found being friends with benefits so amusing earlier pissed her off—and since he shouldn't have been laughing, she slapped the shit out of him—talking about open hand slap—the kind your woman gives when shit gets real—well shit just got real. The man never looked more surprised—rubbing a hand along his stinging jaw—and he was so cute, and she was so wet—and—well fuck this: It was on like donkey kong.

She was in his arms in a flash, kissing him all over, pushing him back against the wall. He swirled them around, causing her to hit and knock down a shelf—and those fucking knick knacks—she had no time for that shit—or her blouse—nope she ripped that shit off—no time for his shirt—nope she ripped that shit off too. The rest of their clothes—nope that shit was gone. And they were butt ass naked.

And then this mother fucker was between her legs, going down on her like he hadn't had a meal in months; and that shit felt amazing. So amazing in fact that her legs were trembling and she knew she was close to climaxing and this was just foreplay.

The way his tongued moved inside her, exploring her; well she knew she had reason to be jealous of those Reese Pieces. Her hand gripped the wall as the first wave washed over her, but to her surprised, Vega munched on, so to speak, and her hands found his hair as the second wave hit her. Her very breath was robbed from her the moment she came; the only sound was the soft breath of her saying his name: "Oscar."

She was completely spent—like take your back out kind of spent—like wouldn't be walking right for weeks spent—and he hadn't even fucked her yet. He stood back up and gave her a light kiss on her forehead and then really looked at her—and he knew that she knew—that he was fucking good.

'Cause this bitch right here—twirled around and broke out singing '_I'm the man, I'm the man, I'm the man'. _She almost slapped him again, but she had other means of punishment that she could inflect on him.

"Your turn, Oscar," and then she dropped to her knees. He sprung to life before her and she ran her hand over the length of his shaft and looked up at him all innocently.

"Um, Angie, maybe we should skip this for right now."

She laughed—fuck that. She took her tongue and flicked it over the tip of his dick; she saw the veins there pulsate, so she licked him again, this time starting at the base and moved her way up to the head of his penis; licking as though this was her favorite summer time treat: a cherry popsicle.

"Angie, I don't think…"

Yeah, well that's the problem with men—they don't think—and before he could say anything else, she swallowed him whole, her lips traveling his length and then back up.

His eyes rolled back in his head as his other _head _rolled back between her teeth and tongue. And if his penis was a lollipop, the way she was sucking, she would be at the stick by now. She was giving him the best blow-job of her life.

She was disappointed when Vega pulled her off of him. "Girl, we can pick this up at another time, we need to get to the main event." She laughed because he practically pushed her back onto the kitchen counter.

You better not be a one minute man, Oscar," she teased.

He pushed her arms back and locked eyes with her. "I'm about to show you a one hour man."

"Promise, because I am going to time this shit," She bent her knees, raising them closer to her chest, spreading them wider apart in the process, and Vega slipped between them and now gripped her hips and she inhaled sharply as the tip of his penis rubbed against her entrance. This had been a long time coming. And when he impaled inside her, filling her; her vagina muscles clenched around him in response. He was so big and she was so tight—and it felt so damn right. They were still for a moment, just like that—enjoying the feel of being inside each other—a perfect fit—as though their bodies were meant to lock together—he the key to her lock.

She patted him on the ass gently and he came to life that being the only encouragement he needed. He started riding her like a horse—_giddy up, cowboy_. And it was so intense that everything was shaking and she swore the house was going to crash down and frankly she didn't give a shit.

He pumped harder and faster until she started seeing colors that she never knew even existed—you know it's good when that shit happens. "HOLY FUCK," she screamed out, not being able to control herself, she never had good sex like this before, and she had never been a saint in the bedroom—so that was really saying something. She came hard: twice that night—not that she was counting or anything.

She looked up at Vega, breathing hard, "I came."

"You want an award?"

She slapped him playfully on the arm. "Smartass, I just wanted you to know you could finish."

"I'm just getting warmed up," and with that he flipped her over on the counter, so she now rested on all fours. Oh man—she knew she was in for some real shit now as she glanced over her should at him.

He traced a hand over her vagina entrance, opening her up for him and then slipped his penis inside her; she gripped the counter tightly, trying to balance herself. He pumped hard into her and being in that position, he was aligned just right with her clit and it didn't take long for her to orgasm—for the third time, again she wasn't counting or anything.

He lifted her up so her back was pressed against her chest, his hands roaming over her breasts and he continued to ride her from behind. His one hand lowered and began to stoke her clit and she could feel the spasms rippling through her—and holy fuck—make that four times in one night—a record for her.

The hours dragged on—or at least it felt like hours—it could have been days, at this point she had no clue. "Oscar, lay down, I want to be on top." She positioned herself on her side so he had room and of course he did what he was told.

"Bossy."

She was about to show him bossy. She climbed on top of him, hovering just above his penis. She could see it tremble from the anticipation, and slowly she guided it in. Vega's eyes rolled back and she knew it wouldn't be long for him. So Angie did what she knew how to do—she put her game down, flipped it and reversed it—on his dick of course. We are talking about bouncing and splitting and dipping. Hips twirling and swirling. Breasts flapping and slapping. And of course, he exploded inside her.

"Holy shit, partner! You are good."

She rolled over onto her back. "You're not so bad yourself."

"We have to do this more often."

She laughed—and there it was—nothing had changed—well in the sense that she was still Angie—he was still Oscar—they were still partners—and clearly, they still had their banter—now they just had really good sex—and could continue to have really good sex—and it would be that easy.

"I hope no one eats off this counter for a while," she said.

"Are you kidding me? We're never washing this counter again."

She snorted. And as it turned out, she didn't need pennies after all. And she got to find out that he tasted as good as he looked—felt as good as he smelled—and mostly, fucked as good as he teased. And of course, they would have to do this again—because everyone loves a good sequel.


	11. Chapter 11

Okay guys here is the conclusion. So for the sequel would you all prefer me to just continue to post it here or start a new story thread?

**XXX**

**The Conclusion: **

Here's the thing about pennies—no one gives a shit about them—until you cash them in and then have a shitload of money, that's when everyone cares—but there's the thing, in order to have a shitload of money, you had to begin with a shitload of pennies; and if pennies were patience, then well; simply put, Lucas, Manny, Betty and Mark had pennies by the bucket full.

Because to wait this long for this shit took a lot of patience, which is why, they currently were crammed into Mark's car, parked down the street from Angie's house. Mark was in the driver's seat, Betty next to him in the passenger's seat, and Manny and Lucas were in the backseat.

"Did anyone have the good sense to set up a camera, so we could have visuals on this?" Betty asked, while looking into the rearview mirror, putting on lipstick.

In the backseat, Manny made a face in disgust, "Thanks, but no thanks to the visuals." He rolled down his window and looked towards his house; the only light on was in the kitchen—why the hell was that the only light on—he prayed that they weren't doing it in the kitchen.

Mark turned around in his seat and shot a glance at Manny then turned to Betty. "I agree with the kid on this one, I don't want to see it either." Mark looked towards Angie's house; the only light on was in the kitchen—he bet they were licking food off each as he sat there. _Go ahead Oscar._

Manny was tempted to make a smartass comeback like: _no one wanted you to see it anyway, mother fucker. _But bit his tongue. Mark wasn't his favorite person—given his history with his mom.

Luckily Lucas spoke up. "Actually, I am with Betty. I wouldn't mind seeing it." Okay—so maybe not so lucky after all—if he was going to say stupid shit like that.

Lucas stared at Angie's house; the only light on was in the kitchen—he bet they were banging against the oven—that would be pretty hot—pun included.

"Well good thing no one asked you, Lucas," Mark shouted out—always being a fucking jerk.

Betty was quick to play referee. "Now, now gentlemen. We are not here to fight." She shot a glance towards Angie's house and noticed the only light on was in the kitchen, if Angie was anything like her, they would be banging on the kitchen table—but anyways, she reached down by her heels and pulled up a jar filled with cash and coins. "We are here to find out who won the betting pool," she announced, trying to get everyone on the same page—which is hard to do when you're in a car filled with men and their testosterone; they never knew when to get their egos in check.

Just then they heard a scream coming from Angie's house. Betty smiled smugly, knowing what that was about. Manny turned red because he knew what that was about. Lucas looked sheepishly because he too, knew what that was about. And Mark, well Mark looked like Mark and we'll leave it at that—basically picture a dick in a suit.

"Um, are they fucking or killing someone in there?" Mark asked in this sarcastic dickhead voice. "If they keep this up they are going to wake the neighbors. Don't need anyone calling the police."

"Well then," Betty said, placing a hand on Mark's shoulder, attempting to calm him down. "Good thing we are already here."

"Listen, Mark," Manny shot from the backseat. "If my mom wants to fuck Oscar, then she's damn well going to and there's nothing you can do about it, so suck it up, buttercup."

Mark turned around in his seat looking at Manny. "Is that right kid, you want a piece of me?" He held his hands up all gangster like.

"Yeah, I want a piece of you," and to show his point, punched the back of Mark's seat a few times, sending Mark forward into the steering wheel.

"Real mature," Mark snapped back. "Don't make me get out of this car, mister."

"You're not my dad."

"Can you all shut the fuck up," Lucas out of where shouted, and since he was usually the quiet one, this got everyone's attention.

"Okay then," Betty injected, "Let's tally this up." She pulled out a pen and paper from her purse. "Let's see what we have." She started to read her notes silently to herself.

"Out loud, please," Lucas rolled his eyes and leaned forward, so he too could read, he didn't want any funny business; he knew he won this fair and square.

"Okay," Betty said. "Don't get your boxers…," she paused, trailing her eyes over Lucas. He blushed in response. "On second note, Lucas, don't get your tighty whities in a wad."

Mark and Manny busted out laughing.

"Why I got to be wearing tighty whities?" Lucas asked from the backseat and crossed his arms across his chest, pouting like a big baby.

Betty bit back a laugh—was he serious right now? She glanced at Manny, who just shrugged. Then to Mark, who just threw his hand up. "What," Lucas shouted as he watched the exchange.

"Fine, Lucas," Betty shook her head, "Then tell me what you do wear then."

Lucas grew quiet and turned red and stared out his window, trying to disappear, and hoping they would move on to a different topic. "Let's not talk about it anymore."

Everyone groaned. "No, she asked you a question and I am quite interested in the answer," Mark piped up.

"Yeah, answer the question," Manny agreed.

Lucas stared at all three of their faces-staring at him. The tension building in the car and finally he snapped. "FINE! "I wear tighty whities! Happy now?"

"Yes, I am," Betty replied. "I knew it." Lucas hit the roof of the car with his fist and she laughed out loud at him. "I know my men and I know my underwear," she glanced in Mark's direction, her eyes giving him the once over, "or lack of."

Manny and Lucas exchanged glances in the backseat and those glances said: _what the fuck is this shit_ and _this shit be gross, son_—you know stuff like that—eyeball conversations.

Mark looked over at Betty curiously and wiggled his brows. He knew he always liked her for a reason.

"Oh my god, the betting pool, please," Manny said. At this rate, shit was going to take all night; between the porno going on at his house, and the porno about to take place in the front seat. He had important shit to do—like sleep, fart—anything other than be in this car with these people. One thing was for sure—he was calling before he came home—no way in hell did he want to walk in on that shit.

"Okay," Betty said, putting her on her glasses and glancing at the paper. "We were all in agreement that Vega would make the first move; and I think Vega showing up at Angie's place constitutes making the first move," she glanced around the car, and everyone nodded. "Okay so everyone got a point with that. Manny said it would take place at the precinct and since it technically did begin there, he earned another point."

"Yes," Manny said, throwing his fist up in victory.

"Not so fast," Betty warned, Mark said it would happen at Angie's house, and what do you know, there's Angie's house," she pointed in the direction of the house. "So he earned a point, which means right now you're both tied for the lead."

Mark reached his hand out towards Manny. "High-five."

Though Manny didn't like Mark and wouldn't mind punching him in the face; he reached out giving him a high-five anyway, because this was a moment to celebrate. His mom and Oscar were finally together.

"But," Betty said, her nose still in the paper, jotting down notes. "Lucas said it would occur at this time of hour, and clearly he was right, judging by those screams of pleasure," Betty coughed, and made a face like _yikes, _then moved on, as though they couldn't totally hear their coworkers totally getting it on, or that this was in anyway normal—for them to all be sitting in this car, at this hour, doing this shit. "So point for Lucas." She read down some more. "And, I said Reese Pieces would be involved, so yeah, I get a point."

"So who won," Mark asked, clearly not good with Math.

"It's a four way tie," Lucas summarized.

"So maybe we should split it," Manny suggested.

They all stared at each other for a moment, tension building…what would be the outcome?

"Sounds good to me," they all said in unison.

So Betty did the math. "Okay, that makes $162 dollars, a piece, with four pennies left over." She handed the pennies to Mark. "You can keep them, since I am sure this is a blow to your ego."

Lucas and Manny laughed.

"Oh you got jokes," Mark said putting the car in drive and pulling away from the curb. "Car full of fucking comedians."

So there it was—pennies for thoughts—and they all would spend those pennies on a sequel.

**XXX**

**The end...or to be continued...**


End file.
